“You are both heroes,” Phoebe said, “and will earn my undying thanks.”
Pamela looked at Ben and smiled. “Undying thanks. We’ll remind her of that one day when she accuses me of taking the last biscuit.” She paused, looking up at the burning roof. “If only we knew that Pah was safe.”
“Do you want me to go up and look for him?” Ben asked.
“No, don’t do that.” Pamela put out a hand to restrain him. “The fire brigade is here now. And loads of soldiers.”
“I wonder if it can do any good?” Ben said, but while he studied the outline of the mansion, it did seem that the flames had died down to a dull red glow. He looked around and saw his father coming toward him.
“I’m glad to see you in one piece, my boy,” he said, holding out his hand to shake Ben’s. “That was foolhardy of you. But well done.”
Ben felt an absurd rush of pleasure that, for once, Jeremy had not been the hero. That he had been the one to rescue the damsel in distress.
Miss Gumble was now sitting up, coughing, with Phoebe beside her.
“You’re the vicar’s son, aren’t you?” she said. “They tell me you came up to save me. My deepest thanks.”
“You were jolly brave, Ben,” Phoebe added.
“It was Lady Pamela who found you first,” Ben said. “I helped her carry you down.”
“I remember smelling smoke, trying to get up, and that’s the last thing I remember,” she said. She looked at Ben. “If you hadn’t come in when you did . . .”
“Phoebe was worried about you,” he said. “She sent me up to find you.”
Suddenly she tried to stand up. “But my things. My books. My papers. I have to go and rescue them. I can’t leave them to be burned.”
Ben put a hand firmly on her shoulder to prevent her from moving. “You can’t go up there, I’m afraid. But don’t worry too much. It looks as if they are managing to put the fire out. So all may not be lost. Let’s hope for the best, shall we?”
Ben watched as Phoebe squatted beside Miss Gumble and tried to comfort her, and a strange thought began to form. So many books and papers . . . and a telescope. Why did a governess need a telescope?
They waited on the forecourt, glancing upward anxiously, then focusing on the front entrance, not speaking to one another. The servants stood off in a huddle to one side. Soldiers who had been sleeping in tents on the grounds had gathered to watch. Others stood ready to move vehicles parked close to the house. But in the early hours of the morning, a group of blackened faces emerged from the front entrance with the news that the fire had been put out. What’s more, the damage was not too devastating. Part of the roof and attic had been destroyed. The ceiling had come down in some of the servants’ bedrooms, but the fire had not managed to reach the main floors of the house.
Among the firefighters who came down wearily was Lord Westerham, soot-covered like the rest of them.
“Damned fine group of men we’ve got staying here,” he said as his wife rushed to his side. “We’d have lost the whole bally place without them. I consider it an act of God to have stationed the West Kents at Farleigh.”
Lady Esme just smiled and wisely said nothing. Then she reverted to her role as lady of the manor. “Mrs. Mortlock, why don’t you make everyone hot cocoa? I think we all need it.”
“Very good, my lady,” Mrs. Mortlock said. “But do you mind if the other servants go up and see what damage has been done to their rooms? They’re worried that they’ve lost their possessions.”
“Of course. By all means,” Lady Westerham said. “And tell them not to worry. We’ll replace what they’ve lost and find them somewhere else to sleep. We’ll all pull through this together.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Mrs. Mortlock answered with a catch in her voice.
Miss Gumble was now standing. “I’d like to go up, too,” she said. “Just to see what might have survived.”
Ben watched her go into the house. And he found himself wondering whether the bombing of Farleigh was an accident or deliberate. He thought of those planes flying over. Why would anyone bomb a country house in the middle of nowhere?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Paris
The first thing Margot noticed as she came to consciousness from sleep was the scent. Rich, smooth, heady. Her nose wrinkled at the unfamiliar perfume. She didn’t use more than a dab of eau de cologne herself, and this was a muskier, more powerful smell that hung in the air. It took her a moment to identify it. Minuit à Paris—Midnight in Paris, the signature perfume of Gigi Armande. And with the identification came the full memory of where she was. She opened her eyes to see the pink silk drapes, tied back with tasselled swags. Early-morning sun streamed in through tall windows. She was lying on a narrow cot, but the other occupant of the room still slept in a luxurious bed, a face mask keeping out the light. She was at the Ritz, in the room of Madame Armande.
The details of the past twenty-four hours came flooding back to her. The complete feeling of unreality that began when she was awakened in the middle of the night by a German soldier, taken to what was presumably Gestapo headquarters; then the almost miraculous intervention of her employer, Madame Armande, resulting in being whisked away and winding up here, at the Ritz, of all places. It was beyond comprehension. To have gone from pure terror to pâté de foie gras in such a brief time moved into the realm of fantasy.
The lackeys at the front entrance had opened doors for her. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” they muttered, bowing. Her small suitcase had been taken from her. They had crossed the magnificent foyer and gone up a flight of red-carpeted stairs. The only people they encountered were German officers, some with a lady at their side. Their wives, or maybe not. Then Madame Armande opened double doors and ushered Margot into her suite.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” she said. “Does it remind you of your home?”
Margot took in the gilded furniture, the moulded ceiling, the heavy drapes, the soft carpet.
And flowers, flowers everywhere.
“Farleigh has a more lived-in feel to it,” she said. “This is pure luxury.”
“But of course.” Gigi Armande looked around with satisfaction. “I know it’s early, but I’ll order lunch, shall I? You must be starving. What would you like?”
Margot was speechless. For too long now, food had been whatever scraps one could find at the market—vegetable soups, rough bread that tasted like sawdust, meat almost never.
“Order what you like,” Gigi Armande had said. “You look as if you need fattening up.”
And like magic, a rich soup, an omelette aux fines herbes, a thin beefsteak with pommes frites, and a dessert of floating island, accompanied by a bottle of crisp Alsatian wine, had been brought up to the room. She was not at all sure of Gigi Armande’s part in this, whether she was a guardian angel sent from God, or a sly accomplice of the Germans, working to soften her up. But she wasn’t about to turn down good food when Paris had been starving for so long.
Margot had forced back her fears, drunk wine with dinner, and been able to sleep, but now with the bright light of day came the overwhelming feeling of despair. She was now quite aware that she was in a beautiful prison and could picture no good outcome. Of course she was being softened up, made to relax so that when the strike came, she would be caught off guard. It was only a matter of time before she was returned to the Gestapo. She wasn’t quite sure whether Gigi Armande was respected enough by the Germans that they accepted her guarantee to keep the prisoner safe or whether she was actively collaborating with them—part of the plot. It made little difference at this stage. All Margot knew was that she had to play along.